


i love you so (i’ll eat you whole)

by hotcuppa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22024471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotcuppa/pseuds/hotcuppa
Summary: 5 times ian uses the love languages+1 time mickey reveals his
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 24
Kudos: 371





	i love you so (i’ll eat you whole)

**Author's Note:**

> it’s my first fic for the fandom so i hope i got the characterization right :/
> 
> this is set at the end of s5 except i’m ignoring literally everything about canon after ian gets out of the hospital so there’s no MPs, no breakup, and s6 doesn’t happen
> 
> tw for homophobia/homophobic slurs

_ one: words of affirmation _

it’s nearing three o’clock in the morning, and all ian’s been doing for the last three hours that he’s been in bed is stare at the clock, watching the red numbers change. mickey’s been asleep next to him for the better part of the three hours, snoring softly, reaching for ian every now and again but never quite touching him. which, to be honest, is quite a feat when they’re both crammed into ian’s tiny twin bed. 

the clock ticks to 2:56am, and ian takes a deep breath. mickey stirs at almost that exact moment, right on ian’s exhale, and cracks an eye open. ian knows that mickey’s realizing that ian hasn’t slept yet, so he speaks before mickey can ask if he’s okay. 

“sorry if i woke you,” ian murmurs. when he blinks, it almost feels like his eyes might glue shut. they don’t, but he kind of wishes they would. just so he could get some sleep. 

“didn’t. how come you’re not asleep?” ian shrugs, and mickey frowns. “i guess that’s what happens when you sleep for eighteen goddamn hours, man.”

“yeah, i guess.”

mickey yawns, scrubs his hands over his eyes. ian feels guilty that mickey is clearly going to try to stay awake with him, but he knows better than to protest. if mickey thinks something’s wrong, he won’t let ian get away with downplaying or hiding it. mickey won’t sleep again until ian does, no matter how many times ian insists that it’s fine. 

he turns on his side to properly face ian, who’s still laying on his back with hands clasped and resting on his stomach. 

“why don’t you relax, man?” mickey huffs, poking ian’s folded hands. “you’re not fuckin’ dead.”

ian gives in, turning over to lay on his side so he can face mickey. “you can go back to sleep, you know,” ian says, because he has to. even if he knows mickey won’t listen. “it’s just my meds keeping me up. always my fuckin’ meds. you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

mickey rolls his eyes. “shut up, gallagher. you know i don’t mind staying up with your stupid ass.” 

_ yeah,  _ ian thinks,  _ because usually it means you’ll get laid.  _ but the meds fuck that up, too. the meds fuck everything up. ian sleeps a ton or not at all, feels both everything and nothing all at once, and he has chronic limp dick. mickey can swallow him down balls deep and ian’s dick would  _ still _ refuse to take interest. it’s fucking embarrassing, really. 

but he doesn’t tell mickey that. mickey wouldn’t understand, not really. and he also wouldn’t let ian apologize, he’d just tell ian that it’s not his fault and to stop whining about pussy crap. so he just promises mickey that next time it’ll work, and the next time never works, so he promises again. mickey never complains, so ian doesn’t either. even if it’s eating him up inside. 

sometimes, he wonders why mickey even stays around. he wouldn’t blame him for leaving. it would hurt like hell, sure, but… ian wouldn’t be too angry. maybe at first he would be, but he’d understand. mickey didn’t sign up for this. he signed up for ian and great sex, not to play caretaker and home health nurse. 

but mickey is here, and ian likes to count his blessings rather than beat himself up, sometimes. 

“i’m glad you’re here,” ian whispers, looking through the darkness for mickey’s eyes. “with me, i mean. i’m glad you’re here with me.”

if it wasn’t so dark, ian thinks he might see mickey blush. but instead, mickey just lightly shoves his arm and grumbles out, “shut the fuck up and go to sleep, gallagher.”

“i’m serious,” ian insists. “you don’t have to do this, any of this. you didn’t sign up to deal with this shit, you didn’t… just, thank you. for being here. i’m happy that you’re here. i love you.”

ian thinks mickey smiles, but it’s gone just as quickly as ian had seen it. “don’t thank me, man. you don’t have shit to thank me for.” and then mickey is scooting a bit closer, just enough that their foreheads are barely touching, and ian can feel his body heat. “now go the fuck to sleep, okay?”

_ two: quality time _

even though mickey’s practically moved in with ian now, he and ian hardly ever see any of ian’s siblings. they see fiona the most, occasionally lip and debbie, but never all together. they stay holed up in ian’s room more often than not, because ian can barely drag himself out of bed most days and, when he can, they’re too busy to see much of each other besides in passing. 

tonight is the first night they’ve all sat down for dinner. ian, fiona, lip, debbie, and liam. they’re all eating together and laughing together and ian really can’t remember the last time this happened so easily. he can’t remember the last time they all sat together and just  _ laughed  _ without bringing up some shit they had to worry about or fix. and, sure, everything isn’t  _ perfect.  _ carl is still in juvie, sammi will be back soon, and they  _ do _ have shit to be worried about, like bills and personal shit. but it’s damn close to perfect, and ian will settle for that right now. he needs it. 

the only thing, though, is that mickey isn’t there. 

mickey had gone out to settle some shit with svetlana, and he’d promised to be back by dinner but ian wasn’t surprised that he was running late. svetlana wasn’t exactly known for making things easy and, well, neither was mickey. ian would be surprised if he came back in a decent mood, because he’s honestly expecting mickey to storm in the door still cursing her out. 

“where’s mickey, ian?” fiona asks, as if she can read his thoughts. the entire table falls silent, then, and it occurs to ian that he’d never  _ really  _ talked to his siblings about what he and mickey actually were. 

of course, he and mickey hadn’t talked about that either. 

“he’s out dealing with some shit,” ian says, trying to be as vague as possible. mickey’s business with svetlana was none of their concern, and frankly, he didn’t want fiona or lip to start voicing their opinions about everything. “he should be back soon, though.”

“there’s plenty of food for him,” fiona says. “if he gets back too late, i’ll put it in the fridge and he can heat it up. make sure you tell him.”

ian nods, “if my meds don’t make me pass out before he gets back, sure.” he means it as a joke, but judging by the way fiona just averts her eyes, he figures it didn’t really land. 

thankfully, saving the dinner from becoming too awkward, the front door slams. ian leans back to watch mickey come in and shrug off his jacket and then head for the stairs. he pauses at the bottom of them and looks over at ian, meeting his eyes. ian can see the conflict in them, can see mickey trying to figure out if he should just sneak upstairs unnoticed or if he should come in and join them. 

it occurs to ian then that, in consequence of not telling his siblings much about him and mickey, he’s made mickey feel uncomfortable. not that mickey ever  _ really  _ feels comfortable socializing with groups of people, but this is different. they’re serious, and mickey lives here, and they’re  _ family.  _ mickey himself has said that. so mickey should feel comfortable joining them for dinner. should feel  _ welcomed.  _

“hey, mick,” ian grins, speaking loud enough to quieter the table again. “fiona made dinner. we left yours on the stove so it would stay warm, come get a plate and sit.”

mickey hesitates for a second, but then makes his way into the kitchen. he pauses when he makes it to the counter, surveying the table—undoubtedly noticing that there isn’t a place for him at the table. ian can see the cogs in his brain turning, can see him formulating his excuse to run upstairs and shut himself in ian’s room. 

but ian wants him to sit with them. wants him to realize that this is his family, too. “you can share my seat,” he offers. “there’s plenty of room, my skinny ass doesn’t take much space. come on, lip was just telling everyone about some dumb ass show he saw the other day.”

the tension in the room breaks as lip jumps to defend himself, and everyone at the table starts laughing and smiling again. ian doesn’t join them. instead, he watches as mickey relaxes into the atmosphere. watches as mickey makes himself a plate of pasta and then comes around to sit on his half of the chair ian’s sitting in. it’s tight, and they’re shoulder to shoulder, but neither of them mind. 

“hi,” ian says quietly, a greeting just for mickey. 

mickey nods, “hey. thanks for waiting up for me, with dinner.”

“it was all fiona,” ian insists. “she wanted to make sure you had something to eat. but we’re glad you made it back in time to eat  _ with  _ us.” 

mickey just smiles a little and bumps their shoulders together, and then digs into his food. 

eventually, he even starts joining in the conversation, arguing with lip and cracking jokes with debbie. ian just sits back and watches instead of partaking. he likes seeing how well mickey melds into his family, how easily and willingly they accept him. it fills him with hope—though he’d never say it out loud—to see him spending time with his family. it makes him feel like maybe everything will work out. 

_ three: gifts _

it’s not cold outside, but the air is crisp enough to burn on every inhale. ian relishes in it, enjoys every single breath he takes as he approaches the house. he’d left early that morning to go for a run, because it’s the first time in weeks that he’s felt up to it and he knew he had to take advantage of it. he was beginning to get stir-crazy staying in that house all the damn time. 

he’s out of shape, though. that much had been clear about a half mile into the run. but he hadn’t stopped. it’s not only the first time he’s been able to go for a run in a long time, but it’s the first time he’s been able to go for a run  _ alone.  _ fiona likes to join him for some fucking reason, probably to make sure he doesn’t do some stupid psychotic shit again. but every run with fiona turns into more of a jog, because she can’t keep up with him, and they do more talking than ian would like. 

it’s not that ian doesn’t like talking to her. he does, and he understands why she’s always talking to him about it. he knows she’s scared, knows she remembers how monica was, knows she doesn’t even recognize him sometimes. and he’s scared too. for a different reason, though—he’s scared because he feels like  _ himself.  _ and he’s scared because he kidnapped yevgeny, and it’s  _ him,  _ it’s the most himself he’s felt in a long time and he’s still capable of things like that. 

but they’re working through it. he’s working through it. and going for a run isn’t a huge thing, but it’s a small step. ian is starting to live for these small steps, just to have something _ to _ live for _.  _

anyway, today’s been a good day, and being able to go for a run has put ian in a good mood. in such a good mood that he’d taken a detour to run by a bakery that they usually pass by because it’s too expensive, and he’d bought a coffee for mickey and two muffins. real fancy shit, much better than the stale cinnamon toast crunch they’ve been eating. 

he bounds up the stairs and into the house, a smile already on his face, only to immediately be cornered by both lip and fiona. 

“where the hell have you been?” fiona asks, folding her arms over her chest. “you’ve been gone for two hours, mickey’s driving himself insane.”

ian’s shoulders tense immediately, his good mood draining out of him. even on good days, he gets these fucking reminders that he’s  _ sick,  _ can’t do shit without letting everybody know about it. 

“i went for a run,” he snaps. “and i got breakfast. didn’t realize i had to ask your permission.”

fiona sighs, putting her hands on her hips and stepping back enough that ian doesn’t feel cornered anymore.

“you could’ve at least let one of us know, ian,” lip interrupts. “we were worried—”

“would you have been worried before i got diagnosed?”

lip and fiona both falter, exchanging an uncomfortable glance, but they don’t get the chance to respond because then mickey is thundering down the stairs. he pushes through lip and fiona and grabs ian by the collar, shoving him back into the wall. 

“where the fuck have you been, gallagher?” mickey demands, tightening his grip on ian’s shirt. “it’s been two fuckin’ hours, the hell did you run to? naperville?”

ian uses the hand not holding the coffee and muffins to shove mickey back. “i was trying to be fucking thoughtful, i brought us breakfast,” ian tells him. he holds the bag out, and then hands mickey the coffee. “got you a coffee, too. thought you’d appreciate it.”

for a long moment, mickey doesn’t say anything. he just stares at the coffee and muffins, guilt and a bit of embarrassment clouding his face. ian doesn’t wait to see if he’s  _ going  _ to say something, instead just snatches the bag back and goes to the kitchen. 

he doesn’t try to be quiet about it. he slams around the cabinets and plates, and he drops the plates on the table. it doesn’t take long for mickey to join him, to sit at the table and pick up the muffin. 

“from that bakery you’re always drooling over?” mickey asks, and ian nods. “um. thanks, man. and i’m sorry i freaked, i just—”

“worry,” ian fills in. he looks up and gives mickey a small smile, hopes that says without words that ian doesn’t really mind, that they’re okay. that ian will get over the annoyance. that he understands. “i know. and you don’t have to thank me, i just thought you’d like to wake up to some nice breakfast. it’s not a big deal.”

mickey touches his hand gently. “thank you.”

ian nods. “you’re welcome.”

_ four: acts of service _

“i fuckin’ hate grocery shopping,” mickey grumbles, following ian around the aisles like a lost puppy. a  _ petulant  _ puppy. “why did i have to come with you, again?”

ian snorts. “because you don’t trust me?” he suggests. 

“i do too,” mickey argues. “you’re a grown ass man, gallagher.”

“so… you’re here because you just like spending time with me?”

“don’t be a fag. the fuck kind of shampoo do we normally buy?”

mickey stops at the shampoos to pick one out, so ian steps up behind him and tries to find the one they normally get. without really thinking about it, he slides one of his hands onto mickey’s hip. normally, mickey shies away from that type of PDA, but for whatever the reason, he doesn’t this time. he just leans back into ian’s chest and laces their fingers together, and goes on rambling about fucking shampoo. 

it doesn’t take long for ian to notice the man staring at them from the other end of the aisle. mickey doesn’t seem to have noticed him yet, but ian had seen him the moment he turned the corner. in fact, this man has been trailing them the entire time. and he’s not even  _ trying  _ to be covert, not even attempting to hide the fact that he’s staring at them with a stupid sneer on his face. 

ian tightens his grip on mickey’s hip, and then slides his hand further so it’s resting on mickey’s stomach. “there’s some guy staring at us,” ian whispers into mickey’s ear. and mickey, of course, instantly snaps his head up and locks eyes with the guy. 

“what? you got a fuckin’ problem?” mickey snaps, causing the man to just roll his eyes and settle his sneer even deeper. “if you got somethin’ to say, say it. or we can take this shit outside, if you want.”

“you won’t do shit,” the man replies. “nothing but a couple of fucking queers. you don’t need to be doing all that nasty shit in public, nobody wants to fucking see that shit.”

mickey raises his eyebrows and then pulls out of ian’s hold. “oh? that’s funny, i don’t remember fuckin’ asking. why don’t you mind your own business before i reach my hand so far down your fuckin’ throat that i rip out your asshole through your esophagus.”

everything happens in a blur, after that. a blur of fists and tackles and blood, really. ian does his best to break it up, but mickey is stronger than he looks, especially when he’s riled up and really pissed about something.

it ends up with the police getting involved, prompting ian and mickey to get thrown out of the store without any of their groceries. ian would be angry about it, but he’s too thankful that mickey didn’t get fucking arrested to really think about that. 

he drags mickey home, ignoring all the shit talking he does on the way there, and then immediately takes him upstairs into the bathroom. mickey fights him the entire way, but ian takes it in stride, basically forcing him to sit down on the toilet so ian can take care of him. 

“why are you fuckin’ pissed at me?” mickey asks, as ian runs a cloth under warm tap water. 

ian sighs, “i’m not. i just wish you hadn’t fought that guy before we paid for our shit. tilt your head back.” there’s a nasty gash on mickey’s forehead from hitting some metal, and ian’s starting to wonder if he’ll need to take mickey to the hospital to get stitches. in the meantime, though, he just runs the rag over it to try and clean some of the dried blood. “you might need stitches, mick. we’ll have to go to the hospital.”

“can’t you do that shit for me?”

“i don’t know how to do fucking stitches, man,” ian laughs. once the wound is clean, he turns to grab some antibiotic ointment. it’s running low, which is kind of fucking crazy because he just bought it last month. fucking gallaghers. “if i could do it for you, i would.”

mickey’s eye is turning black, and he has a busted lip. ian gets a new wet rag to clean his lip, and then runs a gentle finger over his black eye. he’ll need to get a cold compress for the eye and antiseptic for the lip. he turns back to his first aid kit to try and find the antiseptic and an ice pack. 

“you’d stitch me up? like, with a fuckin’ needle?” mickey asks. ian wants to laugh at the mere randomness of the question, but he catches himself. mickey’s voice is soft, insecure. ian knows he needs to tread lightly. 

“yeah, of course i would,” ian shrugs. he finds the antiseptic first, and turns to put it on mickey’s lip. “this might sting.”

it does, if mickey’s hiss is anything to go by. but it's over quickly, and then ian realizes he’ll need to get ice for his lip, too. he grabs a piece of gauze from the kit and then tapes it over mickey’s cut, deciding that he’ll just keep an eye on it for now. if he bleeds through the gauze too fast or if he starts getting dizzy or lightheaded, then they’ll go to the hospital. but the wound seems superficial enough to let it slide. 

mickey hums. “how do you know to do all this shit? i bet you’d be a fuckin’ good EMT.”

“you think so?” ian murmurs. “i don’t know. it’s different with you, you know? because it’s you. i like taking care of you. come on, we need to go to the kitchen so i can get ice on your lip and your eye.”

“yes, doctor,” mickey teases, to which ian just flips him off. 

they don’t have any cold compresses or ice, as it turns out, so mickey ends up with frozen corn to the head and a frozen, expired cup of yogurt to the lip. ian keeps a close eye on him as they sit at the table, watching for any signs that his head injury is bad enough to need an ER trip. 

mickey seems to  _ love  _ the attention. “in sickness and in health, right?” he jokes, nudging ian’s arm with his elbow. 

“yeah,” ian agrees. “wanna go down to the courthouse like a couple of queens and make it official?”

“fuck off, man.”

“don’t talk too much, your lip needs to stop swelling.”

mickey rolls his eyes. “what, are  _ you  _ the fuckin’ nurse now?”

“i just want to take care of you,” ian tells him, resting a hand on his elbow. “that’s all.”

_ five: physical touch _

ian’s been in bed for three days straight without so much as a trip to the bathroom. he didn’t really know that was possible, but he figures it’s due to the fact that he hasn’t drank or eaten anything in that long either. nothing besides a couple of sips of water when mickey forces him, anyway. 

none of them had expected it to get this bad again since he got on meds, but ian isn’t all that surprised. he’s long suspected that the meds don’t do half the shit they’re supposed to. numbing his feelings don’t make them completely go away, and no amount of prescription cocktails can stop his brain from hitting self destruct every now and again. it’s in his fucking  _ brain chemistry.  _

mickey barely leaves his side. ian feels a certain amount of guilt about the whole thing, especially when he’s depressed. because mickey doesn’t deserve to be stuck with this, didn’t sign up for it. and he knows how much it kills mickey to see him like this. knows because he’d heard mickey say it to fiona two nights ago, when they’d believed ian was asleep. it’s just a cruel twist of fate that, despite sleeping for twenty hours a day, he’d actually been awake for that conversation. 

he hasn’t left bed for four days, but he’s been depressed for just over a week. it’s taking a toll on everyone, but mickey especially. ian has felt mickey’s anxiety level rise day by day, everyday that ian doesn’t show any sign of improving. ian knows mickey hadn’t expected this, either. knows mickey is ready to bitch out every clinic in chicago for meds that will actually do away with these episodes. ian also knows that medications like that don’t exist, and that he’ll be stuck with this for the rest of his life. 

so will mickey, if he chooses to stay. ian wouldn’t blame him for bailing, but he also won’t put the idea in mickey’s head. 

besides, mickey doesn’t seem to be in the position to think about  _ anything.  _ ian’s been awake for twenty-four minutes and mickey’s been pacing for twenty-two of them. he’s pretending to fold their laundry, but ian’s seen him fold exactly one shirt before he’d gotten stuck with ian’s dress pants to pace around with. 

it breaks ian’s heart to see mickey like this, and he wishes there was something he could do. he wishes he wasn’t trapped in his own goddamn mind, wishes he could muster up enough fucking energy to stand up and give mickey a fucking  _ hug.  _

when mickey starts trying to fold the pants for the seventieth time, ian decides he’s had enough. he forces himself to pull the blanket off of his head and roll onto his back. mickey startles at the noise and immediately rounds on ian, eyes wide and expectant, like he’d seen a ghost but really just wanted to grab the ouija board and ask questions rather than run screaming for the hills. 

“you okay?” mickey asks, and ian wants to scream at him to stop asking. wants to ask him if  _ he’s  _ okay. wants to tell him that it’s okay if he isn’t, that they can hurt together. that he doesn’t need to be strong just because ian is weak. “want some water or something? you hungry?”

ian shakes his head slowly. “no,” he manages. his voice is rough and dry from disuse, and ian watches as mickey grabs his glass of water anyway. he sits on the edge of the bed and tilts the straw so ian can drink without sitting up. 

_ fuck.  _ ian’s eyes start tearing up, and mickey scrambles to put the cup of water away. he cups his left hand on ian’s right cheek, and chews on his bottom lip. 

“what’s wrong?” he asks. 

ian doesn’t reply. instead, he just scoots closer to the edge of the bed and then drops his right arm out. an invitation—asking mickey to come lay down with him instead of spending the next several hours pretending to fold laundry. 

“i…” mickey begins, and then swallows so hard that his throat clicks. 

“come here,” ian musters up. mickey hesitates, still focused on ian’s watery and red-rimmed eyes, but gives in. 

he climbs over ian’s body and settles into his side. ian wraps his arm around mickey, pulls him closer into his side, and then drapes the blanket over the both of them. the dark is nice, and without mickey pacing around and giving him anxiety, sleep starts pulling on ian’s eyelids again. 

he tightens his grip on mickey. 

“just nap with me,” ian whispers. “okay?”

mickey lets out a shuddery breath. “the laundry will wrinkle. and the bathroom really needs cleaning, and i think fiona and debbie are coming over later to see you so maybe—”

“mick,” ian murmurs. “stay with me.”

ian knows that when mickey agrees, he’s doing it because he thinks ian needs him to. and ian is okay with that. he knows that mickey likes to feel needed, and that mickey would never admit—not even to himself—that he’s the one who needs the comfort right now. but ian knows mickey, even better than mickey knows himself. he knows what mickey needs. 

so he just holds him. wraps his arms around mickey and holds him tight. lets mickey think that he’s the one doing ian a favor, because he knows mickey needs that as much as he needs to be held. 

ian falls asleep before mickey. he doesn’t know if mickey ever falls asleep, but he does know that when he opens his eyes four hours later, mickey is still tucked into his arms. 

_ plus one: mickey + acts of service _

mickey hardly ever sleeps well anymore. either the gallaghers are being too fucking loud or he’s too worried about ian or he’s too worried about everything else. he falls asleep way later than usual and then wakes up way earlier than usual, and ends up spending hours just watching ian sleep. ian does a lot of that, recently. sleeping. 

it’s the gayest shit he’s done in his life, fucking watch ian gallagher sleep. he never thought he’d be here, when he was growing up and realizing who he was. even when he and ian started fucking around, he didn’t think they’d end up here. 

he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. 

even if it means he’s awake at 4am. 

he shifts in bed, reaches out to try and find ian. when his hand finds nothing but the bedsheets—cold bedsheets—his mind instantly turns to panic. he sits up straight and looks around the dark room for any sign of ian, maybe writing or something, but the only thing he sees is the bedroom door cracked open and a faint light coming from downstairs. 

mickey throws on a pair of pants and ian’s shirt and then makes his way downstairs, praying to god that ian is there and just watching tv or something because he can’t sleep. as much as he wants to treat ian like he used to, like nothing’s changed, it’s  _ hard.  _ it’s hard for mickey to be in perfectly normal circumstances (like insomnia) and not immediately start worrying the worst. 

the stairs creak under every footstep, but he doesn’t really try to be quiet. he just keeps going, and when he sees ian sitting at the bar in the kitchen with a glass of water in front of him, he doesn’t try to hide the relieved breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

“hey,” mickey says, crossing over to stand in the kitchen and face ian across the countertop. “what’s wrong? can’t sleep?”

ian shakes his head. “no. just… thinking too much.” he gives mickey an apologetic look that mickey hates. “sorry if i woke you up or something.”

“how long have you been down here?”

“what time is it?”

mickey looks at the clock. “4:21 in the morning.”

“only about an hour,” ian shrugs. “i laid in bed as long as i could. but the psychiatrists in the hospital said that if i couldn’t sleep i should get out of bed until i feel sleepy enough to lay down again. something about your brain making associations between your bed and sleep. supposed to help insomnia.”

“makes sense.” mickey watches ian take a sip from the glass of water, and tries to see all of this as something good. ian seems to be handling these issues well, listening to the help he was given. but he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. “are you sure you’re okay?”

ian looks at him over the rim of the glass. it’s wet with condensation, and water droplets are falling onto the placemat. “as okay as i can be, all things considered,” ian nods. he empties the glass and then hands it to mickey, who puts it in the sink without thinking about it. “why?”

“you just… i don’t know, man. you’re acting fuckin’ weird.”

“i’m acting weird?”

“you said you couldn’t sleep because you were thinking,” mickey barrels on, because he needs to say it. because he keeps thinking of fiona saying  _ he could end up suicidal _ and he’s more scared of that than he is of anything else in the world. “what were you thinking about?”

ian seems surprised by the question, but mickey thinks he shouldn’t be. all things considered. “the same thing i always think about,” ian tells him. “you. us.”

mickey waits for a few seconds, but when it becomes clear that ian doesn’t intend to say anything else, he says, “anything in particular?”

“you used to love me,” ian says. a lot of things run through mickey’s mind, but above all, he thinks:  _ used to?  _ “now you don’t even know who i am.” ian looks up at him, and mickey wonders if ian has been close to tears this entire time and he just hadn’t noticed. his eyes are red-rimmed and mickey’s heart is breaking. “do you still love me, mick?”

what he wants to say is  _ yes, of course i fucking love you, how could i not? it’s you.  _ but what actually comes out is, “what the fuck?” 

he’s never been all that good at saying his feelings. not even to ian. 

“this is me, mickey,” ian grits out, and mickey watches as he clenches his fists, slams them down onto the countertop. it shakes everything on it, but mickey doesn’t flinch. “this is who i am, all of this. i’m still the same ian you fell for, just… except that i’m not, at all. you know?” and no, mickey doesn’t know. he’s so confused, and scared out of his fucking mind. 

“are you— is this you breaking up with me?”

“no, i—” ian cuts himself off, and scrubs his hands over his hair and his face. then he curls them into fists again, and sets his face into a hard expression. like he’s protecting himself. “i love you. do you still love me?”

mickey comes around the counter, grabbing ian’s fists. he works his fingers underneath ian’s, trying to get him to relax and unclench his fists. to let his guard down. 

“of course i love you,” mickey tells him, and then he watches all the tension flood out of his body. “to me, that means that we take care of each other.  _ i  _ take care of  _ you.  _ thick and thin, good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit.”

“it’s just that you don’t ever tell me. so i just… i wanted you to know that it’s okay if you didn’t. you don’t owe me anything.”

“i don’t know how to talk about my feelings, ian,” he says. he thinks back to his wedding to svetlana, when he told ian that  _ not everybody just gets to blurt out how they fuckin’ feel every minute.  _ it’s still true, to an extent. but now, it’s not that he can’t, it’s that he never learned how. “but i try my damnedest to show you.”  _ to take care of you,  _ he thinks, but doesn’t say again. ian gets the idea. 

ian finally unclenches his fists completely, and he lets mickey lace their fingers together. “i’m sorry,” he whispers. 

“shut the fuck up, gallagher.” mickey leans in, kisses him on the forehead. he can’t help but smile when ian leans into the touch. “every time i carry your heavy ass to the bathroom, every time i wash your fuckin’ hair, every time i force you to drink water even when you’re acting like a stubborn bitch about it, every time i ask you if you’re okay… i don’t do it because i think i owe you shit. i do it because i love you, and that’s what love is.” he lets go of one of ian’s hands, and uses it to pull ian in for a hug. ian’s head rests on his chest and mickey runs his hand over the back of his neck to hold it there. “you’re under my skin, man.”

“so you’ve told me.” ian laughs, but it’s wet, and mickey hopes to god he’s not crying. “i love you.”

“i know, baby.” mickey kisses him again, right on the top of his head. “i love you, too.”


End file.
